


Tu Verras

by anonymousorly



Category: Football RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Hotel Sex, Loneliness, M/M, Paris (City), Paris Saint-Germain F.C., Porn with Feelings, Smut, Solo Artist Zayn, Sports, Transfer Angst, neymar fucks zayn, zaymar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 07:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11778516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousorly/pseuds/anonymousorly
Summary: “You're the richest footballer in the world…on the most successful club France has ever had.” Pausing to let him reflect that fact, Zayn nips Neymar's pierced ear and evokes a deep moan. “I want you to act like it.”[Neymar transferring to PSG feels a lot like when Zayn left One Direction]





	Tu Verras

It's early in the morning and Neymar sits front row in Le Parc des Princes…the Park of Princes…his new home, workplace, and lover. He is no prince yet here he is and the name doesn't seem fitting for a stadium, he thinks, so he probably needs to do more research to understand why such a place is one, called that and two, including him in their club. He can do everything they expect and want, and he will, but the pressure is very real. He has yet to practice with the squad, to kick a single ball to Cavani or at Alphonse, to see Dani or Lucas. His familiarity with the way Leo and Luis dribbled and passed is no longer relevant. He's starting all over, and by himself.

Zayn watches the football star closely, how his eyes dart between nets and flicker up to the grandstands. The hazels occasionally sweep over him, as if he's part of this “taking it all in” process, and his dark browns barely meet them before they roll away.

“How long does it take to not feel alone?” Neymar asks quietly, folded hands hanging over the side of the barricade.

It's a heavy question with an even heavier answer. “Long,” he candidly confesses. “I mean, you're going from one club to another, so you'll still have a group around you. But, replacing four years of understanding one group to understand a new one…doing certain things that feel like you're reliving a moment when it's just a memory, comparing the two endlessly and unfairly, imagining what it'd be like if you were still there…”

Zayn stops when Neymar looks at him, not just sweeping over but intent. The Brazilian truly was beautiful, a captivating force that goes beyond mere attraction and sex appeal. Zayn’s always been captivated by the humility, desire, smoothness, spark, everything, Neymar.

He summarizes, “It's not quick, but it's not forever.”

Neymar keeps their gaze and slides a tattooed hand toward Zayn, whose own covers it gently so his fingers fall between them. “I matured there. I came a child and left a man. They transformed me.”

“They transformed you and you helped them. You can be grateful,” Zayn presses his palm down briefly, “but you owe no debt.”

Neymar turns his head because it feels like he does. It feels like he owes something to the club that brought him across the sea to play both with and among the best in the world. Zayn’s gone through this before and that's why they're here.

Zayn touches Neymar’s cheek and brings their eyes together again. “You'll see.”

They sneak into the Peninsula, a somewhat middle point away from their respective hotels swarmed with paparazzi and fans, and Neymar asks for a room on the roof because he wants Zayn to see Paris with him. The general manager offers the room complimentary in exchange for publicity but he declines, pushing his card forward across the marble countertop. He hasn't earned the privilege to accept or be offered such compensation from this city, despite the small reimbursement he'd repay. No, he wouldn't take anything from Paris until he first gave them something.

A host guides them up to the room and the terrace is catered for lunch when they step outside. It's around noon and they should eat, particularly an athlete, but instead take in the heating air and clear view. Zayn nudges him a few times, nodding at the spread, and gets rejected each time. He wants to be more pushy, shove a damn blueberry down Neymar’s throat, but knows better than anyone how hunger and appetite disappears. He knows pushing only makes it worse, so he doesn't.

High sun warms the cloudless day and Neymar needs water, his body trained to crave hydration appropriately which includes first sweat. Zayn pours him a large glass from the crystal pitcher on the drink cart and it's gone in an instant with a sigh. He gets a refill, which lasts longer as they pass it back and forth. He's itching for a cigarette, hasn't had one since walking in the stadium and that was hours ago, a torturously long time for any addict. And he can light one, Neymar won't mind, but there's something about exhaling cancerous smoke around a sporting professional that doesn't sit right.

Zayn leads him inside the air conditioned suite and to the bedroom, Neymar restlessly tapping his wrist and half mumbling he wants to stay outside. Gigi is scheduled to finish her shoot or appearance or whatever later on and Zayn has to be there when she returns. He's got plenty of time until then but doesn't want to rush it with Neymar now, so he's playing cautious with the clock.

“Some people say we look alike,” Zayn comments as he spins to face Neymar, “which I find insulting.”

“Rude,” Neymar monotonously retorts but a genuine grin shines while Zayn presses up against him, noses brushing. “Big talk from small muscle.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and kisses Neymar. Something's off, though, the weight and tension not budging. Before he can get a word out, Neymar starts to form an apology, an unnecessary and unwanted gesture that makes him fume from his belly outward throughout his veins to his toes. He yanks Neymar’s hair, shuts him up.

“You're the richest footballer in the world…on the most successful club France has ever had.” Pausing to let him reflect that fact, Zayn nips a pierced lobe with his teeth and evokes a deep moan. “I want you to act like it.”

Instantly, Neymar shoves him onto the bed and crawls over him, the order of “act like it” charging his competitiveness and the urge to succeed. He kisses Zayn hard, tongue curling almost to the back of his throat and sealed mouths restricting any airflow. Zayn gasps these little short breaths every so often and Neymar only forces their lips tighter, chest pressing lower and causing his hips to grind upward. Zayn touches him everywhere, under his polo from his back and sliding to his front, under his jeans to squeeze his ass and tease his cock, everywhere, and he's hard instantly.

He breaks to pull off Zayn’s shirt and bends to kiss across the wings on his collar, licking the red open mouth on his sternum before sucking a hickey on the skin inside the two lips. Zayn moans and arches up, fingers gripping bleached hair and wanting more of what Neymar gives him that Gigi can't.

The excitement of revealing Zayn’s upper body and his needy response makes Neymar crave more. He rolls off so they both can undress and climbs back on before Zayn has a chance to kick his briefs from his ankles.

Neymar rests his forehead on Zayn’s, lets them admire and feel one another. The skin, warmth, bodies, touching, being not alone, making his dark hurricane of thoughts more tolerable. There's a relief kissing Zayn and those sweet lips, tongue assaulting every possible surface and he just fucking _takes_ it. But their erections rub and he wants more…a different relief.

With one hand, he lifts one of Zayn’s legs slightly and slowly circles the wet tip of his cock around the entrance with the other, easing inside and fuck it's tight. He whimpers at how _sensational_ Zayn’s ass feels hugging his dick, walls trapping, and how _amped_ he is to fuck him wide. Once buried, he rocks his hips and Zayn bites his bottom lip like it'll help force his eyes open.

He pulls out very slow, almost cautious to keep movement from stretching Zayn too much because the tightness is glorious but temporary and he'll do what he can to prolong that. Zayn sighs blissfully at the gliding ridges, then releases a drawn out moan as Neymar sinks back in just as carefully, fallen eyelids and gripped sheets.

Neymar shivers, slides his elbows behind Zayn’s knees from the inside and effortlessly keeps his legs locked, heels on his shoulders and lower back perfectly angled. Zayn gasps and, arms barely able to reach Neymar, scoots down closer to grab his waist. He's fairly certain Neymar could crush his bones in half by the way his firm biceps and pronounced abs flex to hold him.

Neymar’s thrusts are smooth, hips steady and nails grazing Zayn’s calf, body on fire as he feels Zayn stretching around his cock. His breathing quickens once Zayn shifts so he's hitting his prostate, and Zayn very nearly loses his mind because he's melting and panting, begging and Neymar fists his hardon. The world is static, he doesn't know if he's crying out or actually dying or orgasming or his own name, but it's the most incredible pleasure and it ends far too suddenly.

When he opens his eyes, he's clean and cold. Neymar’s dressed, sitting at the foot of the bed and watching him. The smile he gets will be one he'll remember for some time and he wiggles over next to him, softly kissing him and taking his hand.

Legs tucked under him, Neymar brings Zayn in his lap and whispers gratitude in his ear, squeezing hard enough to momentarily cut circulation from Zayn’s arms.

Zayn questions, “Are you leaving already?” Neymar doesn't respond, so he probes, “Why?”

“You have someone waiting for you.” Zayn’s chest goes heavy, heart pounding, and Neymar reads emotion across his face. “It's fine, we both knew…this. Just. Going first, with no one waiting, it's less…”

“Self evident.” And the smile Zayn wouldn't forget, the one he awoke to, turns sad. “I'll always wait for you, Mar. I won't let you be alone. You'll see.”

There's photographers and an overall mob as Neymar exits the Peninsula and Zayn looks down from the terrace as the footballer is swarmed. He thinks he sees those dark eyes glance up toward him but can't be certain. His phone vibrates in his back pocket and notifies him of two new texts from Gigi, which remain unread in preference of Neymar’s departure into a limo cab. The auto drives out of sight but he stays until the mob dissolves, drifting between the messy bed and terrace.


End file.
